


Grown-Up Games

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Comeplay, Dom/sub Play, Dubious Consent, Forced Crossdressing, M/M, Masturbation, Rimming, Shota, Size Kink, Spanking, because of the underage thing, not because either party objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John argues, his voice fierce despite the cracking.  He is nearly thirteen, after all; practically an adult.  Old enough to play grown-up games.  In the sitting room he stands, small for his age, proud, assertive, still wearing his schoolboy uniform.  He stamps his foot; he insists, petulant and hopeful all at once.</p><p>Sherlock smiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grown-Up Games

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is shota. For those who don't know what that means, here is an excerpt from wikipedia: "Prepubescent or pubescent male characters are depicted in a suggestive or erotic manner.... The usage of the term in both Western and Japanese fan cultures includes works ranging from explicitly pornographic to mildly suggestive, romantic or entirely nonsexual." This particular story falls squarely under the explicitly pornographic heading.
> 
> Please heed the warnings and read the tags! This is a super kinky fic featuring underage John and adult Sherlock. If that or any of the tags are a squick or a trigger for you, do not read it!
> 
> Final disclaimer: This story was written for fantasy purposes. The author does not condone such behavior in real life, and anyone who engages in anything even remotely like this in real life with someone underage deserves to rot in prison.

John argues, his voice fierce despite the cracking. He is nearly thirteen, after all; practically an adult. Old enough to play grown-up games. In the sitting room he stands, small for his age, proud, assertive, still wearing his schoolboy uniform. He stamps his foot; he insists, petulant and hopeful all at once.

Sherlock smiles.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In the bedroom John stands, pale and slender, rigid, tense, wearing only too-small little girl’s knickers. White with scalloped lace trim and a pattern of tiny cherries. He cannot meet Sherlock’s gaze and his face and chest flush a deep red every time Sherlock tells him how pretty he looks. His small cock is hard already, poking against his knickers.

After watching him for a long time, long enough to savor the rise of his embarrassment, to see his cock start to leak into the thin cotton knickers, Sherlock puts John on his knees. He steps forward and grips the underside of John’s jaw gently, his one hand large enough to wrap almost from ear to ear. Then he leans in and drags his hard cock along the seam of John’s lips, which part obediently for him.

He slides just the head of his cock into John’s mouth, gently, slowly, and pulls it back again. John’s eyes are open, staring up at him, and he slides in again, a bit further this time. He holds it there for a beat, two, drinking in the sight of John’s soft pink lips framing the red skin of his cock, and then pulls out again. Repeats, pushing in a tiny bit deeper and holding there just slightly longer. Again.

He starts to move faster, pushing his cock further and further into John’s mouth with each thrust. John kneels, motionless, staring up at Sherlock with liquid, luminous eyes, his tiny erection protruding obscene against the fabric of his little girl knickers, and lets Sherlock fuck into his hot wet mouth.

Sherlock pushes in as deep as he can, less than half the length of his cock fitting inside the warm cavern of John’s small mouth, and holds himself there. John’s lips are stretched around his shaft, trembling with strain, and Sherlock can feel his throat fluttering beneath the hand that still grips his jaw.

He waits, pushed in deep, until John’s eyes fall closed, until tears start to slip, silent and sweet, from the corners of John’s closed eyes. Then he pulls back just enough to let John suck in a sharp breath through his nose before immediately pushing in again. John’s eyes stay closed, his throat flutters harder. He does not move.

Sherlock does it again, and again, holding deep just a bit longer each time. He can feel the moment John surrenders completely, feel the muscles in his throat and jaw relax, accept. He pushes in further, the head of his cock squeezing into the tight slick heat of John’s throat, and feels the involuntary clench and pull as John’s lungs beat futilely against the intrusion even as his body relaxes around it.

He waits, savors John’s surrender, lets the suction of John’s throat work his cock as he wipes his thumb through the tear tracks on John’s cheek. Then he pulls out completely. John collapses back onto his heels, sucking in harsh lungfuls of air. His small cock is rigid, his knickers soaked with precome. Sherlock waits until John opens his eyes.

“John, you’ve got your pretty little knickers all wet,” he says, voice stern, looking down at John where he has collapsed on the ground. John stares up at him, eyes wide, tears glistening on his cheeks and a string of drool glistening on his chin.

Sherlock bends down and scoops up John’s small form, cradling him to his chest with gentle hands. His expression is sympathetic, firm, pitying.

“Do you know what happens to naughty boys who get their pretty knickers all wet?” he asks, taking care to keep his tone gentle and chastising. He sits on the edge of the bed and turns John over his knee.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t, I didn’t mean to…” John begins, voice frantic. Sherlock shushes him, caressing the round curve of John’s arse and letting one finger drag down the seam between his cheeks. His knickers are too small and they ride up in the back, parting his cheeks and leaving behind the imprint of scalloped lace. John falls silent.

Sherlock drags the palm of his hand over the mound of John’s arse again and then, without warning, spanks him smartly. John jumps on his lap and lets out a tiny whimper. Sherlock pauses, listens to John’s panting breaths. Spanks him again, harder. The sharp crack echoes in the hush of the bedroom. John whimpers again, bucking on Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock reaches around and pushes two fingers into John’s open, gasping mouth before spanking him again. John gasps around the fingers in his mouth, whines. And again.

“Are you sorry for getting your knickers all wet?” Sherlock asks, rubbing John’s arse with one hand and sliding his fingers against John’s tongue with the other. John tries to answer, but only a string of gibberish comes out of his mouth around the intrusion of Sherlock’s fingers.

Sherlock smiles. He parts his fingers and slides them along the velvet softness of John’s tongue, and then spanks him again, harder still.

“Do you promise to be a good boy?” Sherlock asks. Another babble of gibberish, frantic, urgent. John writhes on his lap. Sherlock can feel a trail of drool dripping down his hand from where his fingers rest in John’s mouth.

Sherlock pulls his fingers out and carefully turns John over, placing his small form on the center of the bed. John’s eyes are clenched shut, his face flushed a dark red, his hair stuck up in clumps and spikes with sweat. Tear tracks shine on his cheeks and saliva glistens on his chin. His small cock pokes almost straight up, and his knickers are wetter than ever.

Sherlock shushes him again, although John is silent but for his panting breaths, and caresses down John’s torso with both hands, enjoying the way that his huge hands nearly cover the entirety of John’s small chest. He lets his thumbs linger on John’s tight nipples, flicking in circles, and John sucks in his breath with a sharp hiss.

Sherlock drags his hands over John’s slim hips and catches the waistband of the knickers. He pulls them down carefully, slowly, staring as they give way to reveal John’s small rigid cock, his tight, nearly hairless balls. Sherlock drags the knickers down to John’s ankles, pulling one little foot free but leaving them trapped around the other ankle.

He looks up and sees John looking down at him, expression a confusion of embarrassment and desire. His lips are parted, wet and pink, and his large liquid eyes glow like midnight in the dim light. Sherlock looks back at him, holds his gaze until John blinks and looks away, yet another blush staining his smooth cheeks.

Sherlock runs his hands up John’s legs, pressing his thighs open. John lets him, spreads his legs with no resistance. Sherlock keeps pushing, his large hands sliding along the smooth skin of John’s slender thighs until John’s legs are lifted completely off the bed, raised up against his stomach, and his cock and arse are on full display.

Sherlock pauses, flicks his eyes up to John. John’s head is thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. He is gripping his own knees, fingers clenching convulsively against his own skin, panting, trembling. As Sherlock watches, John lets out a little squeak.

Sherlock leans in and licks up the crack of John’s arse. John makes a noise, halfway between a yelp and a moan, and Sherlock does it again. Then he points his tongue and thrusts it into John’s tight little arsehole.

John jumps, bucks against him, hips stuttering in an involuntary cadence. Sherlock grips John’s hips tight, holds him still, fingers nearly touching around John’s slender waist, and thrusts his tongue in and out of John’s arse in a relentless rhythm.

John moans, a long formless roll of sound that gradually takes shape as Sherlock fucks him with his tongue.

“Please please please oh _please_ …” John slurs out through slack lips, head thrashing from side to side. Sherlock rears up, breaking contact suddenly, and John gasps. Sherlock can see his tiny arsehole, open now and glistening with saliva, clenching convulsively.

Sherlock sucks his pinky finger into his own mouth and laves it with his tongue, getting it slick and wet. He leans forward, placing the tip of his wet little finger against John’s entrance. Then he licks a stripe from the base of John’s firm smooth balls up his short cock as he shoves his finger into the tight wet heat of John’s arse.

John cries out and bucks, and Sherlock catches John’s cock, the whole length of which fits easily in his mouth. He sucks hard, at the same time flicking his tongue around the head and thrusting his finger in and out of John’s hole. He can feel John’s internal muscles squeezing tight around his finger, rippling against his skin.

One, two, three hard sucks and John is coming, his small cock going impossibly harder, arse clenching down on Sherlock’s finger as he squirts a small amount of semen into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock keeps sucking, keeps fucking John’s little arsehole with his finger until he finishes, until he cries out from the overstimulation and tries to wriggle away, until he begs Sherlock to stop.

Sherlock rears up on his hands and knees, directly over John’s small, debauched body. He brings one hand to himself and jerks his cock frantically, drinking in the sight of John so thoroughly spoiled, wrecked, debased. John’s face is wet with sweat, a string of saliva still running from his open, panting mouth, the salt of dried tears crusting his cheeks beneath his tightly closed eyes. His fair skin is blotchy red, his nipples tight and hard. His cock is soft now, drawn up small, innocuous in the vee of his still-spread legs. Sherlock can see wetness gleaming in the crack of his arse.

Sherlock bites his lip, orgasm crashing over him. Just before he peaks he leans forward, lifting one leg to move up John’s body. His cock twitches in his hand and he comes directly onto John’s face, spraying spurt after spurt of semen onto John’s cheeks, his forehead, his still open mouth.

Sherlock collapses onto the bed, gathers John’s tiny body against his, and presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head before drifting into an exhausted sleep.


End file.
